The diary of almost everything

Sometimes it’s not even nostalgia that hits, it’s embarrassment.
One photo, one song, and suddenly I’m back in a memory I didn’t ask for, wondering why I thought glittery butterfly clips and my Nokia ringtone were peak personality.

Truth is, I don’t miss who I was.
But I do sometimes miss the world around her. The slower days. The way a whole summer could fit into one lazy afternoon. The way plans were made in person. The way fun silence used to exist, before WiFi and the pressure to always reply.

Was I confident? Sometimes.
Spontaneous? Occasionally.
Did I dance in public? Not once, not then, not now. (I freeze. Always have.)
Still The idea of everyone watching, of doing it wrong. So no, I wasn’t wildly expressive. I was careful. Presentable. Always dressed neatly, aware of my surroundings. I adapted. I fit in. But I still noticed everything.

Was I a people-pleaser? Sometimes. But not for everyone. I had a strong ‘I don’t care’ streak too, the kind that meant I could ask a boy if he liked me. Back then, my ego hadn’t yet learned what rejection felt like. But I’d never leave a sleepover without saying goodbye; that wasn’t me.

I struggled at school, not because I didn’t try, but because trying didn’t always help. I needed an extra push. And luckily, I got one: private tutoring. School itself didn’t offer much support. And yes, I could be a little too relaxed about effort now and then. But no, I wasn’t dumb. I just needed the right explanation.

If I could sit next to that girl now, I wouldn’t give her advice.
I’d give her a blanket.
A hug.
A look that says: you’re doing just fine.
I’d tell her the overthinking never really stops, but you’ll learn to talk over it.
And that no one who really sees you needs convincing.

She wouldn’t believe me, of course.
She’d smile politely and return to wondering if she said the wrong thing yesterday.
But maybe, just maybe, she’d walk away feeling a little bit softer. A little less alone.

Now? I keep rewriting myself — not to become perfect, but to become more mine. I’ve learned to choose my people. To take up space, even when my voice shakes. I still crave softness, but I’m better at giving it to myself first.

– Sophie Quinn